


heartache at sunset

by inverse



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-08
Updated: 2007-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inverse/pseuds/inverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>spite is a dreadful creature; regret is a monster.</p><blockquote>
  <p>Later at half-past six you find him pitching furiously against the fence, as if expecting it to react, to throw the balls back at him and ask him to pitch a centre straight like you used to. Right now you know he’s blind to everything else. You watch from the sidelines, counting quietly, secretly, not making a sound; watch as he hits all nine invisible strike zones methodically, repeatedly. Mechanically.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	heartache at sunset

Later at half-past six you find him pitching furiously against the fence, as if expecting it to react, to throw the balls back at him and ask him to pitch a centre straight like you used to. Right now you know he’s blind to everything else. You watch from the sidelines, counting quietly, secretly, not making a sound; watch as he hits all nine invisible strike zones methodically, repeatedly. Mechanically.

It’s twenty minutes later that you decide that he’s pushing it. You walk up—“Mihashi! Mihashi—” and he nearly loses his footing, tripping over the many baseballs at his feet. He says nothing, as usual; you continue, “What do you think you’re doing? The finals are in a week, if you break your arm the team is going to be in a real fix—” and he starts blinking rapidly—you know he’s that close to bawling again and you heave the heaviest sigh you allow yourself to. At that he starts shaking, and you grit out, “Look, isn’t Tajima good enough for the job? It’s not like he’s doing all that terribly—” although you wish you could be saying something like Look, Tajima’s only temporary.

“It’s not that,” he finally blurts out, looking at you, unexpectedly, square in the eye for the first time in a long time. Your heart skips a beat; you realise you’re suddenly nervous. He goes on to say, “It’s just that—just that without Abe-kun—” he stops, and sniffs, “It’s like I can’t pitch properly anymore,” and at that point in time you hear that, more or less, as an insult, an accusation, as if it wasn’t the case that Mihashi had confessed, point-blank, a flattering dependency on you, but had instead, somehow or other, blamed everything on your untimely injury. “You make it sound like,” you say, slowly, a little sadly, “it was my choice to quit the team,” and as the setting sun catches on the off-white of Mihashi’s jersey, you think about what you’d give to wear that again.


End file.
